


A Worrying Hiding Spot

by orange_8_hands



Series: Sweetheart [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment, Gen, Impala Fic, Wordcount: 100-500, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:46:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_8_hands/pseuds/orange_8_hands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More and more they go to Bobby's</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Worrying Hiding Spot

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [my LJ](http://orange-8-hands.livejournal.com/1349.html), July 2011.

More and more often, he takes me back to the Land of Broken Lives.

_(I will never be left here. I will never be left here. I will never be left here.)_

It’s with twin desires I spend my days there. I want to hide, escape, silence the dying echoes around me, but they flow over me, flow into me, remind me of my mortality, of my future. I do not know where I will go – will he be able to take me to heaven again? – but I know what happens to what I leave behind. It is a slow, cruel slide into oblivion, not necessarily hurtful but so lonely. The truth of that heartbreak surrounds me, taunts me, and every time I drive through the border I wonder if this will be my last.

( _I will never be left here._ My mantra, my truth. I was once carried through, given space and time to heal, to be fixed, to be saved, when anybody else – _Dean_ , the brother says, but Dean stops him before he speaks – would have given up. _I will never be left here_ …and yet…)

But here is also where he likes to lay me out. Tools like extensions of his arms he brings me parts, fixes cracks, plays with my lines and screws and body until I shiver under his focus. Eyes and hands run over me even when others come out to talk – the monster, the brother, these days the angel. (He watches Dean as Dean watches me; satisfaction is simple but pleasurable in the face of his annoyance.)

The ones who are still alive – fewer each time, old ones dying but new ones absent – like to curse me, beg me, hate me. I am not abandoned. I am not dying. I am not them.

( _Not yet_ , they laugh.

 _I will never be left here._ )

Sometimes I am placed near the Survivor. Honor and taunt, curse and blessing. Years, _years_ , as the only one fully alive, the only one who isn’t dying, surrounded by scraps, by cries, by whimpers and screams. The only reasonable response was one committed long ago: a fall into madness. A few times, the Survivor has come to us, and the utter terror, the utter joy of being away from this place is horrible to witness, like keys against your side, digging deep enough to shatter paint into flecks. The Survivor is a badly created lesson, the nightmare I’m too scared to even dream.

_(I will never be left here. I will never be left here. I will never be left here.)_

Leaving this place is a gift I will never take for granted. We hit the roads, following yellow lines, following white ones, Dean’s calloused hands gently shifting me, steering me, taking me away. He tapes the rhythm with his fingers, crates beats to bob to, and I follow old tunes to new places, eating miles by the thousands, until we cycle back.

_(I will never be left here.)_


End file.
